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About Me

Welcome!
To me, there is nothing more precious than our family.
We are all connected in some way, like the branches of a tree. This site explores those branches, sharing family stories and information - both known and yet to be discovered - so we can meet the people behind the names and gain insights into our own lives. If you have questions or wish to share your own memories or photo about a family on this site, please leave a comment, or contact me.

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

My parents, having decided that our family should leave the high altitude of Mexico City for the sake of my little sister's health, now had a decision to make: Where should we go?

Flickr Creative Commons, Photo by Laenulfean

We had been living in the Federal District for nearly three years after leaving our home in Chicago, Illinois, in 1964 following the Cuban Missile Crisis. We were very happy living near our Huesca relatives. My sisters and I had learned to speak, read, and write Spanish, and we had acclimated well to the culture.

Unfortunately, the city's high elevation (7,350 feet above sea level) had affected my sister's health and enlarged her adenoids, which made it hard for her to breathe and eat. Although the rest of us did not suffer the effects as severely, on occasion we found ourselves huffing and puffing from the thin air as we went up the stairs or exerted ourselves physically.

It was not unusual for people of lower altitudes to suffer from Mexico's thin air. When Mexico City hosted the Olympic Games in 1968, just a year after we left, I remember reading newspaper reports about the challenges the high altitude posed to many athletes. It turned out that those who came from areas with similarly high elevations had an advantage over the others and performed much better, particularly in the track and field events. In fact, someone took advantage of this to promote a souvenir during that time - a metal tin of "Mexican Air," said to be especially helpful for beating athletic performance records. The thin air was so detrimental to the performance of many of Olympians that the Games have not taken place in such a high elevation ever since.

There was no shortage of beautiful cities and towns in Mexico where we could have moved. My parents had their favorite cities: Puebla, Guadalajara, Cuernavaca, and Merida. Of these, the most job opportunities would have been in the first two cities, so it is possible that they would have been at the top of the list. The biggest drawback was that there were no relatives living in any of those places by then. As was the case with many Mexicans in the mid-twentieth century, most of the Huesca family had migrated to the capital, where the jobs and opportunities were.

Other options were areas back in the United States. We had been living in a warm climate long enough by now that my parents did not want to return to the extreme temperatures of Chicago, even with my grandfather still living there. My mother, Joan (Schiavon) Huesca, missed him and her brother and his family, but she thought it was time for a change. My father, Gilbert Huesca, felt the same way.

That December in 1966 as we celebrated what would be our last Christmas in Mexico, my parents began to talk to us and to our relatives about the upcoming move. It was a difficult topic, to be sure, but their sadness at leaving our relatives was tempered by their concern over my sister's health. While they were still uncertain about their decision, they also felt excited about the wide range of choices available to them.

I was not too sure I wanted to move somewhere else at this point, if it was not back to my hometown of Chicago. As happy as I was living in Mexico, there were moments when I missed our old house and my grandfather and cousins and friends back there. I used to fantasize that we would return there one day to a rousing welcome by the mayor and a ticker tape parade down State Street, with all my old classmates cheering and Frank Sinatra singing my favorite song, "Chicago, That Toddlin' Town"in the background. On the other hand, I had grown very close to my Mexican relatives and had made lots of friends and did not want to leave them, either. But the more my parents talked about the move, the more we became caught up in the excitement of a new adventure.My parents began leaning toward moving back to the States, as both of them were American citizens (a native of Mexico, my father had become a naturalized American citizen in the early 1960s) and could own property and have a better chance of finding good jobs. They might even be able to start a business once they got settled. The more they thought about the possibility of starting a business, the clearer it became that we should move to an area where the economy was strong and growing.

Two states seemed to fit the bill: Texas and California. Both were known as forward-thinking states, were experiencing rapid growth, and had warm climates. The cities that appealed to my parents were Brownsville, San Antonio, and Houston, in Texas; and San Francisco, San Diego, and Los Angeles, in California. All of these cities were at or close to sea level. Texas was closer to Chicago than California, which was a plus if we were to visit my grandfather.

But that led to a discussion that would end up deciding the question. When all was said and done, where would we feel most at home? There needed to be family or friends, at the very least, nearby. My parents had made friends with the Baileys, when we had visited Brownsville a couple of years before. They also had old friends from Chicago who had moved to Los Angeles. And then my mother thought of her aunt and uncle, Benita (McGinnis) and Philip McCormick and their daughter Jane, who by now was married and the mother of a little girl. Aunt "Detty," as we called her, and Uncle Phil and Aunt Jane (McCormick) and her husband Ole Olson, lived on the San Francisco peninsula in California.

My mother and her cousin Jane were only a year apart; they had grown up together in Chicago as their mothers were sisters. A few years after Jane had arrived in California to work for Trans World Airlines, her parents followed so they could live close to their daughter and her family. By now they were in their early 70s but were still active and in excellent health.

My maternal grandmother had died only three years before at this point, and my mother missed her deeply. The idea of living near her mother's sister and her cousin, was comforting and felt right. My father thought it was a wonderful idea. It would be a healthy place to live

I still remember how excited my sisters and I got when we heard we were moving to "sunny California." I don't think we knew much, if anything at all about the place. I can't speak for my sisters, but I was very proud that there was one thing I knew something about: San Francisco. It was the home of the Golden Gate Bridge and of my second favorite song: Tony Bennett's "I Left My Heart in San Francsico." It was also the home of my favorite American commercial - Rice-A-Roni, The San Francisco Treat. I couldn't wait to hear the ding-ding of that cable car.

The short, stout, hunched over pediatrician my parents had found in the Mexico City phone book and called in desperation to tend to my little sister pointed to a portrait over my parents' bed as he blinked his eyes.

It was late Fall of 1966. My father, Gilbert Huesca, was a bit startled by this question. He was more concerned about my seven-year-old sister's illness than about answering questions from a curious man looking at pictures on a wall.

The doctor snapped out of his fog. "Her tonsils and adenoids appear to be inflamed. How long has she had trouble breathing like this?"

My mother told him that my sister had been sick on and off for a couple of months. At first it had seemed she was just getting recurrent colds, but when she lost her appetite and began losing weight, it was clear something else was happening.

The doctor explained that enlarged tonsils and adenoids could cause such symptoms, well as her labored breathing. Why they were enlarged was yet to be determined, but to start with he prescribed a course of antibiotics in case it was a bacterial infection. If the antibiotics did not work, my sister might need surgery to have her adenoids removed. In any case, he would see her again in a few days. My two other little sisters and I, watching from the door, grimaced. "Why do they have to add a noise to her?" My baby sister whispered. "No, silly," I corrected her. "They're called adenoids. And if they don't get better, then the doctor has has to take them out." My second sister, always quick to get to the heart of the problem, asked, "So what are adenoids anyway, and are they bad?" I knew as little as she did. We leaned in closer to get a clue.

My parents, somewhat relieved, thanked the doctor for coming. "How much do we owe you?" my father asked.

Dr. Franco seemed not to hear the question but looked back up at the picture. "I'm sorry, but I have to know, sir. Do you know that man?"

My father, still puzzled by the doctor's distraction, answered. "He was my father."

Recalling this encounter many years later, my father remarked, "He felt as though he found something special, something that belonged to him."

It turned out that some forty or so years before, José Felipe Franco had been a struggling young doctor in Orizaba, Veracruz, when he met my grandfather, José Gil Alberto "Cayetano" Huesca. At the time, my grandfather worked as a mechanic for the Mexican Railway, Ferrocarriles Mexicanos. When he found out that the young José often skipped meals to make up for the costs of his fledgling medical practice, my grandfather took it upon himself to feed his new acquaintance as if he were one of the family, helped him with business expenses, and recommended him to relatives and friends.

Over time, Doctor Franco became successful. He eventually moved to the capital, where he founded a children's hospital, the Clínica Infantil Doctor Franco, on San Cosme Avenue, in the San Rafael neighborhood, or colonia. He never forgot his humble beginnings and set aside one day a week to care for the poor and indigent, free of charge.

Of all the ways to meet an old family friend, so many miles and so many years later, this was quite remarkable. Though Dr. Franco was saddened to know my grandfather had died in 1937, he was glad to learn my grandmother, Catalina (Perrotin) Huesca was now living in Mexico City. He visited her soon afterward and also connected with some of my aunts and uncles.

The friendship he had shared with my grandfather years before took on a new life with my father's generation of the Huesca family. I think my father saw a bit of his own father in this grandfatherly gentleman. Dr. Franco welcomed the connection. He became quite close to my father and mother and some of my uncles. They looked out for each other and each other's families over the years, each at his happiest when he could do something for the other. For the second time in his life, he became a part of our family. But this time, his story also became part of our family story. It also led to one of my father's favorite sayings: Whatever you do in this life will always come back to you.

Dr. Franco continued to treat my sister at his hospital. He was of the opinion that her enlarged adenoids had been caused by the Federal District's high altitude - 7,000 feet above sea level. He told my mother and father that he saw two options. One would be to undergo surgery to remove the adenoids. The other option would be to move out of Mexico City to another area that was closer to sea level. This second option, he theorized, might allow her system to regularize itself.

After some consideration of the pros and cons of an adenoidectomy, my parents concluded that moving out of the area might be a safer and more beneficial alternative for my sister in the long run. Having solved that dilemma, they now had to tackle a new one: Where should we go?

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

Received your letter and glad to hear from you and that you are all well. I am feeling pretty good myself at present. A week ago Gene Vallee* and I took Joe Hanlon** to South Bend to see a football game and that evening we all had dinner at the Swedish Club. Thanksgiving day I am having the Vallees for dinner at the Club.

I see you are having problems with the domestic help. I guess it is very hard to get someone that is serious about work. I had that problem for sometime and know what it is to find someone reliable. I hope that you will be able to find someone that will be satisfactory.

Hope that the girls got over their exams O.K. . . .I am enclosing a check for 50.00 to use as you see fit for the holidays for yourself and the children.

I'm sorry that I don't have much more in the line of news and will close with all my love to you and kisses and hugs for the children.

BA BA.

"Ba Ba" was my maternal grandfather, Ralph Schiavon. My mother, Joan (Schiavon) Huesca, loved receiving his letters after we left Chicago to live in Mexico City. She would carefully slit open the envelopes so as not to damage their contents and take them into the kitchen, where we would surround her while she read them aloud.

The "problem with domestic help" to which my grandfather referred had to do with the two maids my parents employed during our stay in Mexico. At the time, although most women stayed home to run their household and care for their children, most middle and upper-class families hired maids to help with the laundry, cleaning, and cooking.

Our first maid was a young 18-year-oldnamed Maria. She was the sole breadwinner for her single mother and her eight brothers and sisters, and she lived in a rough-and-tumble shack a few miles from our neighborhood. Unlike most maids, she was tall, fair-skinned and had what used to be called "dishwater blonde" long hair. I don't know how many women my mother interviewed before she met Maria, but the two instantly connected. My mother liked her sweetness and eagerness to learn and found her to be friendly and well-mannered.

By the end of Maria's first week, my mother had given Maria some of her own dresses, helped her dye her hair a golden blonde and put it in rollers, and was teaching her English. From the back, the two of them looked so much alike, they could have been sisters, except one of them was always singing in Spanish.

By Mexican standards, it was a lopsided relationship. Maids were expected to keep to themselves and serve their employers quietly, and employers were not expected to get involved in the lives of their domestic help. While my mother must have known this, she treated everyone equally and respectfully, no matter what their status in life was. I think she saw that Maria, in spite of her hard life, was bright and idealistic and full of possibilities.

The first day Maria began working in our house, I remember thinking I might be able to bribe her to make my bed for me every day. Before leaving for school, I offered her 20 centavos - at the time probably not worth even two cents - to make my bed. When I think about this now, I realize how insulting it must have been, even coming from a child. But Maria was nonplussed. She patted me on the head and said my mother had not hired her to do our work for us, no matter how much we offered her. Pointing to my bed, she waited, arms crossed, as I made it sheepishly under her watchful supervision. As far as I know, she did not tell my mother about this. I was grateful to her and followed her around the house like a puppy dog when I got home after school.

Maria was a hard worker. My mother liked that she was thorough with her chores, and my father liked that she never had to be told anything twice. She was kind to my sisters and me and would do anything my mother asked her without a moment's hesitation. She picked up English vocabulary quickly, to everyone's delight. She asked a lot of questions about life in the United States and began talking about going to high school so she could make something of herself. My mother said that if Maria could get her mother to agree to this, she could have afternoons off to go to classes.

It seemed to be a good partnership, with each helping the other in her own way, until Maria stopped coming to work abruptly. It may have been due to circumstances beyond her control; her mother, it seems, did not like the idea that her daughter was learning English from a gringa.

I remember hearing my parents discuss this. They thought Maria's mother, an indigenous woman, was afraid that her beautiful daughter would go to the United States and leave her to fend for herself. She probably felt she had no other choice but to keep her daughter away from us so she would forget about leaving Mexico.

There was nothing my parents could do. They were clearly frustrated by this turn of events. I do not think my mother missed having a maid as much as she wished she could have helped Maria achieve a better life.

My parents reluctantly hired another maid named Rosa a couple of months later. I say "reluctantly" because my mother was convinced that she would never find another maid of Maria's caliber. She was right. Rosa lasted a week, until my mother found her sneaking out of the house with a pocketful of silverware. After that, she went back to doing her own housework, training us, her daughters, to be her able assistants.

We never saw Maria again. I wish I knew what happened to her. Assuming she is still alive, she would be in her 60s and is probably a grandmother. I would like to think that her dreams came true and that she was able to rise up from her poverty. If nothing else, I hope she found the happiness and fulfillment she deserved.

Thursday, February 14, 2013

"I want you for my Valentine,
So herewith I will shout it.
And now the question's up to you,
What will you do about it?"

Just this once, I am going to take a break from the usual family stories of the past that typically appear here. (Warning: it will get more sentimental than usual this time, but I get to call the shots on this blog. If you are family, you have to stick this out. If you're not, feel free to read something else.)

Today, I want to focus on a story of the present. It is the story our family is creating right now.

This is an open letter to my family - my husband, our sons and our daughter, the most important people in my life.
C., when we declared our love for each other before God all those years ago, we could not have imagined how much deeper and stronger our love would grow with each passing year. You are the love of my life. I'm so glad we get to grow old together.

I love you for too many reasons to list here, but I'll give it a go: for your kindness; the softness of your voice; the way you share your hopes and dreams; the way you accept me the way I am, flaws and all; the tender way you melt at the sight of a small child; your incredible patience; and the way you make people feel special. I love you for the wonderful life we have together with our children.

Thank you for believing in me, for always being my best friend, and for making each day end on a happy note. Thank you for your love in good times and in bad, for reminding me that things would get better when they seemed they could not get worse, and for the little things you do to make me feel special. Thank you for being a loving father, for being considerate and gentle with our family, and most of all for giving me your heart day after day. You will always have mine.

To our children, M., K. and E.: what immeasurable joy you have brought to Dad and me! We thank God for sending you into our lives.

My precious M.: Your passion for seeking knowledge and truth and virtue is truly astonishing. You set high standards for yourself and go to great lengths to achieve them. I wish I had your self-discipline! You have an analytical mind but a sentimental soul, which is one of the most endearing things about you. You are fiercely proud and protective of our family. I really love that about you, because it shows your tenderness and goodness. You challenge us to step out of our comfort zones and think in new ways, all the while infusing our conversations with your humor and zest for language and argument.

My dear K.: You are a spiritual person with a heart of gold, always ready to fly to someone's aid without a second thought. Your have the wisdom of an old soul. You are bright and articulate yet humble. You continue to amaze me with your many interests and talents. You are our Renaissance Man, ever expanding your skills and knowledge as you strive for excellence. You excel at so many things; maybe that's why it's a challenge to concentrate on a single one. Whatever you do and wherever you go, be sure to follow your heart. You will enrich the lives of those around you and be rewarded with the happiness and love that makes life worthwhile.

And my sweet daughter E.: You have always been full of surprises, jumping headlong into life and loving the adventure it brings. In everything you do, even through rough seas, you show confidence and daring as you navigate your way in your own inimitable style. Your contagious laughter is one of the many things that draws people to you, but what keeps them close is your loyalty and devotion. You are insightful and have a strong sense of justice. You are diligent and determined to achieve your goals. You have the power to make a difference in the world. Take the unknown gradually. Don't fear vulnerability. Instead try to understand and embrace it so it can make you stronger. Always believe in yourself, and let the love in your heart shine. And know that Dad and I love you and believe in you, too.

We are not a perfect family. We have no trouble sharing our differences of opinion and philosophy. Our house is not always neat. We can be pretty boring now and then. We lose things a lot. We repeat ourselves. We make mistakes. We operate on different schedules and body clocks and have very different tastes in food. Sometimes, we are less considerate of each other than we should be.

But those things are small when you think about what we do right. We come together to share meals and watch movies and celebrate special occasions. Our hearts are in the right place. We agree to disagree, though it is not always easy. We are there for each other in times of trouble, as strong as a bundle of sticks. We can swallow our pride and say "I'm sorry." By the same token, we're not too bad at forgiving each other or adding a heartfelt "I love you."

Thank you for loving me when I am not very lovable, for showing me that happiness is just our being together, for teaching me patience (over and over and over again). Thank you for eating my dinners when they are less than stellar, for making those garden jazz brunches on Mother's Day, for listening to me ramble on about our family tree, for your funny cards, and for putting up with my own mushy ones, filled with x's and o's.

These are the good times and this is our story - our wonderful work in progress. We will write many chapters, some better than others, some together and others apart. How do we want it to go from here? What will we remember about this story years from now? If nothing else, let it be the running theme of our love for each other through thick and thin.

I want to tell you now, on Valentine's Day, how much you mean to me, how much I'll always love you, and how proud I am that you love and respect each other. I'm putting it down here because someday you will need to remember this. (And for once, you won't have to hunt through all those boxes to find it.)

These few lines can express only a fraction of my love for each and every one of you. I cannot imagine what my life would be without each and every one of you. You are my Heaven-sent treasures. Thank you for blessing my life.

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

My school hygiene committee card, issued in 1966, stated on the reverse that I would promise to be a good example of physical, mental, and moral health, and would strive to promote the same for the betterment of Mexico.

While my sisters and I attended school in Mexico City in the mid-1960s, we learned that not only was it important to be well-educated in the basic subjects of reading, writing, and arithmetic, but it was equally important to be take pride in ourselves and our country. I owe much of my love and esteem for my "second" country to this priceless experience, for which I will be ever grateful.

It was inherent in a student's life that he or she wear their uniforms proudly. At Ezequiel A. Chávez Elementary School, we had two uniforms. There was a Monday uniform consisting of a starched white cotton blouse with a sailor collar that trimmed with a double border of red ribbon, tucked neatly into a matching white pleated skirt. With a red cardigan and a broad red satin bow at the neck topping the ensemble, we looked pretty snappy.

We wore a different uniform for the rest of the week. Along with the same red sweater, we wore a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar, again tied at the neck with a red bow, over a grey flannel pleated skirt. I remember my mother hand washing (few people had washing machines in those days) and ironing our uniforms on Saturdays. For three children with all those different pieces, it was a lengthy process.

Every Monday morning, we met for a school assembly in the large courtyard in the center of the school. Crisply dressed in our Monday uniforms, we formed long lines for each class, setting our bookbags on the ground next to us, keeping both feet together and hands at our sides. Our principal, Mrs. Rangel, opened the assembly with the Pledge of Allegiance to the Mexican flag and two or three choruses of the National Anthem.

After a short talk on good citizenship, our principal invited outstanding students to perform a declamación. Technically, this would translate as a declamation, typically the recitation of an historic speech or a poem, but so much more is involved in it, including dramatic oratory and movement, emotion. It took a lot of practice to do this, and the more talented students participated in local, state, and national competitions.

Before the close of assembly, we did some basic exercises, touching our toes and jumping jacks, all in unison. Then we practiced following instructions, with Mrs. Rangel calling out, "hands in front, hands behind your back, turn right, turn left, " and so on, until we were dismissed to follow our teachers to class in single file.

Our classrooms were rather simple. We received only one or two textbooks in the fourth grade and copied the rest of our lessons from the blackboard into our small 6" x 9" loose-leaf black binders. When we learned our multiplication tables, our teacher, Miss Ofelia Ortega, tossed a ball around the room. Whoever caught the ball had to recite each table. I was not good at catching balls, but that never excused me from the exercise.

Maybe this active participation is the reason I recall some of those lessons so clearly today. In fact, after we returned to the United States in 1967, I saw my very first overhead projector in junior high. I remember shaking my head at how much "stuff" American students seemed to need to learn a subject when we did so much with so little in Mexico.

We took several field trips to learn about Mexican art and history. It was exciting to see the Aztec calendar up close. We also got to visit landmarks such as Chapultepec Castle. The castle had been home to the Austrian Hapsburgs who were sent to rule Mexico under Napoleon before the emperor's eventual capture and executed by Benito Juarez, Mexico's version of his contemporary, Abraham Lincoln. Experiencing these icons of Mexico brought its history alive and gave meaning to its culture for me.

Learning about the US/Mexican War in Mexico and then again (later) in the United States was enlightening in that I learned countries can have very different perspectives on the same thing, yet all of their citizens are proud of their heritage. Among other things, we learned that Mexico could have been one of the largest countries in the world if the U.S. had not "taken" much of the territory above the Rio Grande that today makes up much of the Western United States. The sting of that war remains in the country, which will never forget the great power it could have become. It was a bit surprising to learn about this war in a very different way when we moved to California a few years later.

We also learned that "Americans" were referred to as "North Americans," a reminder that America is not just the United States but comprises all of the countries of the continent.

In the fifth grade, I was chosen to represent my class on the school hygiene committee. Our duties, as shown on the reverse of our member cards, stated our promise to be good examples for our classmates of cleanliness and sound physical, mental, and moral health; and to strive in the future to better Mexico by promoting the same.

There were frequent hygiene checks, one of which was the occasional lice check. The bane of every student is to be sent home because of lice. A lot of the mothers dealt with this by shaving their children's heads so they were sure to get rid of the pests completely.

When my sisters and I were sent home one day with the dreaded lice, my mother refused to shave our heads as so many other mothers did. Instead, she and one of my aunts found another remedy that at the time was said to be foolproof. We took turns going into the bathroom to have them scrub our heads thoroughly with a thick brown bar of soap that did the trick. It worked. I still remember the large letters engraved on the bar: DDT.

There were always a few girls coming to school bald. The first couple of times I saw this, I thought it was kind of odd, but after a while, it seemed less shocking, especially as you knew their hair would grow back eventually.

Not all girls had their heads shaved because of lice, though. Another reason that mothers shaved their daughters' heads (usually the younger children) was the belief that it would help their fine hair to grow back in thicker. This was an old wives' tale, but there were enough people who believed it, and at the time, I wasn't really sure whether it was true or not.

One of my little sisters had very fine hair. Some of the other mothers tried to talk my mother into shaving her head, but she adamantly refused. To this day, my sister has always had a beautiful head of hair.

"Why aren't there any boys in our school?" I once asked my teacher. "Oh, they come later in the day," she replied, explaining that due to a lack of space, not all the children in the neighborhood could attend school at the same time. There were, in fact, two sessions: the morning session for the girls, and the afternoon session for the boys. Coming from a family of all girls and being rather shy around boys at my age anyway, that was just fine with me.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

On my first day of school in Mexico City, I noticed something I had never seen back home in Chicago. As we entered the classroom, most, if not all, of the students kissed the teacher on the cheek as they greeted her with a "Buenos días, Maestra" - Good morning, Teacher.

Miss Ofelia Ortega Vázquez hugged each child back affectionately. Back home, as much as we loved our teachers, there was a certain distance between them and us. As I watched, I thought that the attractive lady in front of the blackboard might be quite nice.

At the end of the school day, the students thanked our Maestra, kissing her again on the cheek. After some time, I was doing it, too, not so much because my peers were, but because we seemed to enjoy a certain freedom to show our love for our teachers. Although the current climate of our society today might not allow for this display of affection, at that time it was considered genuine and innocent, as far as I know.

Showing me to my seat, the Maestra explained in English that she was about give us a spelling quiz. I remember it well. Miss Ofelia paced up and down the rows of desks, repeating each word three times. I tried my best to listen carefully to the words and write them down phonetically, but I failed miserably.

Señorita Ofelia Ortega, or Maestra (teacher), as she was called, was in fact not a Miss, but a Mrs. who had been widowed at a young age. She was in her mid to late 30s, tall and slender, with a freckled face framed by short, soft brown curls. Her benevolent dark eyes danced when she laughed, and her voice, confident and reassuring, could command the room with a single word. She moved purposefully through her classroom, not missing a beat, pointing out mistakes and exacting nothing less than perfection from her students while spending extra time with those who needed it most.

Recess was a repeat of our morning arrival at the school, as scores of well-meaning but curious girls again surrounded my sisters and me, poking their fingers through our ringlets and peppering us with questions. Some of our new schoolmates knew enough English to ask us our names and tell us theirs. In giggly voices and heavy American accents, we repeated their names in singsong fashion, much to their amusement. Mrs. Rangel, the principal came to our rescue as she had that morning, but this time we were beginning to enjoy the attention, so she left us alone. By the end of the day, the three of us had made new friends.

Early that afternoon and many times after that, my mother picked my sisters up and let me go home with Miss Ofelia. As soon as we got there, she'd pull on a checked print apron embroidered with red roses along the neckline and on the large pockets at the hem. She would sit down with me at the kitchen table and go over the day's lessons, leaving me to do my homework as she started dinner.

She paid close attention to my work, looking over my shoulder now and then, helping me conjugate a verb or explaining when to add an accent mark. She wanted me to study hard so I could speak, read, and write Spanish as well as any native speaker. Still, she made sure there was always time for play, and when it was time to go home, she sent me off with a big hug.

Miss Ofelia would teach my class through the sixth grade, our last year at Ezequiel A. Chavez School. Whether or not it was standard practice, it made sense in that she knew our backgrounds, strengths, and weaknesses well. We too, got to know our Maestra well and not only respected her but loved her, too. Our class was cohesive and well-behaved and studious for the most part. Though there may have been exceptions, we were as loyal to our teacher as she was to us.

My parents and Miss Ofelia hit it off, and she was a guest at our home several times. Even after we left Mexico City, our family stayed in touch with her for many years. When I was in the ninth grade and ready to make my Confirmation in California, I wrote to ask her to be my godmother. It would be a symbolic gesture as she could not afford to fly up for the Mass, but still I was thrilled when she accepted. Now I would get to call her not just Maestra but also Madrina, which means godmother. It would mean an even stronger bond between us.

Miss Ofelia made a place for me in her class and in her heart. She will always have a special place in mine.

Monday, February 11, 2013

Not long after arriving in Mexico City in 1964, our parents had to enroll us in a new school. They were of the mind that immersion was the best way for children to learn a language. Unlike many Americans living in the capital, they resisted living in the expat neighborhoods, preferring to expose us to and enrich us with the Mexican language and culture.

One Friday afternoon my mother went down to Ezequiel A. Chávez School, a public elementary school on Mirto Street, about four blocks from my grandmother's home, to register two of my sisters and me for classes. She met with the principal and one of the teachers, who was bilingual and served as interpreter.

The principal, Mrs. Elvira Rangel, happily accepted my sisters on the spot. As for me, she lamented that there was no room in the 4th grade class for another student. My mother asked her to reconsider, not wanting to split us up in different schools. Mrs. Rangel said she was sorry, but there was nothing she could do.

The teacher asked permission to speak. It turned out she was the 4th grade teacher. "It's true," she said, "we have no room - but I will make room for your daughter."

Further, she offered to tutor me after school at her home, to make sure I understood everything in class. My mother was ecstatic and thanked her profusely.

The following Monday morning, my mother woke us up early. She scrubbed our faces and brushed our hair into ringlets and made sure our white saddle shoes practically sparkled. With butterflies in our stomachs, my sisters and I waved goodbye to her and our baby sister and got into the station wagon for the short ride to our new school. We had been in Mexico City for a couple of weeks and knew only a few phrases in Spanish. We could say hello and how are you and thank you. Beyond that, we wondered, how would we get along?

As my father slowly pulled up to the front of the school on our first morning of class, a very strange thing happened. Someone pointed to our Illinois "Land of Lincoln" license plates. Someone else ran over to look, and before we knew it, we were mobbed by a crowd of girls, all dressed in immaculate white shirtdresses with starched sailor collars trimmed in red ribbon, with matching bows at the neck. They swarmed around the car, pushing their noses and mouths against the glass and gesturing wildly as they jumped up and down, squealing, "Miren las güeras!" "Look at the blondes," they were saying.

Blondes? We were anything but blonde. We later came to understand they were referring to our fair faces, a sure sign of our foreignness. (As time progressed, we saw few other Americans in the neighborhood at that time, so we must have been quite the oddity.)

We could not get out of the car because there were so many girls around it, knocking on the windows and firing questions at us in words we could not understand. At first we thought it was funny, but as more faces appeared in the crowd, we began to feel a little frightened. It seemed like an eternity before Mrs. Rangel came out to disperse the students, admonishing them that they - and we - were now tardy. With a nod to my father, she whisked us into the school and to the courtyard, where she lined us up with our respective classmates for the morning assembly.

We would be welcomed to school in the same way every day that week, until either our newness wore off or the principal put a stop to it with a threat of serious discipline. But from that first day on, we would be known to everyone as "las güeras."

One of the wonderful things about writing a blog is discovering a wonderful community of people with similar interests and challenges. In the case of a family history blog, there is a large and delightful community of fascinating, well-read, and articulate writers who share a common desire to keep their family stories alive for future generations.

Like other writers, we family history writers face similar challenges - writer's block, demanding personal schedules, sensitive themes, complex stories requiring further research or holes to be patched before they can be told, and so on. I can claim any and all of these reasons (read "excuses") and have delayed many a post because of them.

Enter Lynn Palermo of the Family History Writing Challenge. Lynn is a fellow writer and family historian whose passion is helping others share the stories of their family's history - the people, their setbacks and triumphs, and how we can relate to them. In 2012, Lynn started the Family History Writing Challenge to encourage people to stop procrastinating and just write about these things - whether in a book, a blog, a memoir, or a journal. She invited writers to pledge to write a minimum of words - anywhere from 250 and up - per day for each of the 28 days of February.

The Family History Writing Challenge was so successful that Lynn is continuing the challenge this February. I dipped my toes in the Challenge with some trepidation at first, not sure I could commit to this kind of a challenge. It has been so much fun that I have taken the plunge, am deep in the water, and find it exhilarating.

At this point, I have pledged to write the minimum of 250 words per day. The number of words has not been a problem for me so far, but posting a new blog entry every day has. My schedule is my greatest reason (excuse) for this.

As much as I would like to post something every day, I have also resolved to be kind to myself and to my loved ones! Yes, I will write every day, but may not necessarily post something daily if I do not have the time or am not ready. My own family life takes priority here. After all, how can you write about family if you don't spend time with them?

Oh, and beyond that, there is another reality: a budding winter virus is vying for attention at the moment, too.

I love Lynn's daily newsletters. They are packed with inspiring quotes, articles on the writing experience; suggestions on story development; and forums where fellow writers can share tips, critique each other's writing, and offer encouragement.

If you're thinking of doing something like this, I hope you'll take the plunge. I'd daresay that no matter when you decide, it's never too late to get started.

Saturday, February 09, 2013

Rice Pudding, also known in Spain and Latin America as Arroz con Leche. Courtesy Wikipedia; in the public domain.

Having cooked for her family's two hotels in Veracruz state in the 1920s and 30s and for her family of 13 every day for much of her life, my grandmother, Catalina (Perrotin) Huesca, knew how to make anything without a referring to a recipe.

I remember well several dishes she made inimitably: her frijoles (refried beans), rice; chiles rellenos (stuffed green peppers), sopa de fideos (noodle soup), mole poblano (chicken in mole sauce), and enchiladas suizas (Swiss-style enchiladas in cream sauce). The frijoles are unlike anything one can get in the United States; the tiny noodles in the sopa always seemed just right for a child to eat; and the chiles rellenos and the mole poblano are the dishes I tend to order when I want to test the authenticity of a Mexican restaurant.

Unlike my abuelita, I have to resort to a cookbook for most of the dishes I want to make. The recipes are good, but truth be told, my results are nothing like hers.

Abuelita also made a delicious cinnamon rice pudding - arroz con leche. Some time after we had moved into a house of our own in Mexico City, our whole family - my parents and all four of us girls - came down with some awful virus that had the six of us bedridden for several days. My grandmother came to the rescue with her rice pudding. It tasted heavenly. She said it would help us feel better, and she was right.

I wish I had my grandmother's exact recipe for rice pudding. This is about as close as I have been able to come after all these years.

Rice Pudding (Arroz con leche)

Bring whole milk and cinnamon to boil and add rice. Simmer for 20 minutes or until milk is nearly completely absorbed, stirring frequently to keep rice from sticking to the bottom of the pot.

Add sugar and sweetened condensed milk and reduce heat to medium low. Add vanilla and cook for about three more minutes. Remove from heat and add raisins, stirring to help them soften. Sprinkle cinnamon on top before serving.

In the middle of the park was a stunning, arched Moorish-style kiosk built of colorful tiles laid in intricate geometric designs. Made of iron from given the engineer by his friend, Andrew Carnegie, the kiosk had been designed as the Mexican Pavilion at the World's Fair from 1884 - 1885 in New Orleans and later at the Saint Louis Fair of 1904 before being dismantled and brought to Mexico City in the early 1900s. On weekends it was often the scene of concerts and other performances. You can see a panoramic view of the kiosk here.

Abuelita lived in one of two first floorflats in a four unit building on a tree-lined street. Her living room looked out to the sidewalk.

As you entered into the house, you passed under a small shelf that hung over the door. The shelf held a framed picture of Saint Martin de Porres, my grandmother's favorite saint. You would continue down a long two-tone green hallway that ran the length of the home as you walked down a tile floor of brown and beige octagonal mosaic tiles set in a honeycomb pattern. To your left, you would see each of the other rooms.

My grandmother's bedroom and bathroom were in the center of the house, followed by a tiny kitchen and a dining room at the rear. All the rooms had windows overlooking the courtyard next door. The courtyard itself led to the home of my Bisabuelita or great-grandmother, Maria (Amaro) Perrotin, and my great aunt, Blanca Perrotin. Maria was in her late 90s and had survived three husbands; Blanca was a spinster. They came over every day and stayed past dinner, telling stories around the dining room table.

About halfway down the hall to the right, you would follow the hallway around an angled turn. There, the lathe-and-plaster wall ended and a metal half wall began. It was topped by a long bank of glass block windows. A metal door opened into a small patio filled with potted geraniums and other flowers and plants whose perfume permeated the air. Abuelita left the door propped open door open all day long to let the fresh air and sunshine into the house.

She also loved to listen to the chirping of her canaries. Though she had a radio and television in the dining room, the canaries made the real music in the house. They lived in cages in the hallway between her bedroom and the kitchen. At any given time they numbered between 6 and 15, all singing their own cheerful songs. My grandmother said they were singing their prayers to God, because God loved all creatures, especially the small ones. She put them out in her sunny patio when she awoke and brought them in the late afternoon, covering their cages with an old towel so they would quiet down for the night.

I recall asking whether they had names, and she said no, but she knew which one was which, anyway. After counting them, I announced that she had as many canaries as she had children, so we should name each of them after my father and his 10 brothers and sisters. She threw her head back and laughed heartily, rubbing my head. "Go ahead, then," she said. We tried that for a while until I realized that unlike my grandmother, I could not tell them apart. Still, I credit her with giving me a love for birds and their sweet songs, especially those colorful canaries, which even to this day, remind of of her and give me reason to smile.

The Spanish language uses a lot of diminutives, and this seemed to apply especially well to my grandmother. The word Abuelita translates into English as "little grandmother," and she was barely taller than I was. Everything about her was petite, her hands, her feet, even the tiny wavy curls crowning her head. She had so many! I just couldn't figure out how they stayed that way. I never saw her curl her hair at bedtime, so in my little nine-year-old mind I decided that she must have had to put it up in pin curls and just left them that way for oh, maybe a year or so. I had not yet heard of permanents.

I think that because she had raised 11 children, she had incredible patience to put up with all of us while we lived with her in that little house. She never complained but seemed overjoyed to have us, even though it must have meant a lot of extra work. She was an excellent cook, having learned from her own mother. She also had been the cook at the hotels and restaurants she and my grandfather, Cayetano Huesca, owned in Tierra Blanca and Perote, Veracruz. She did not have many pots and pans, but I do remember watching her cook her amazing Mexican-style rice in a cast-iron skillet on a gas stove.

My mother, Joan (Schiavon) Huesca, tried her best to learn how to cook my father's favorite Mexican dishes from Abuelita. One of these was a breakfast casserole of eggs, chiles, and and tortilla strips, called Chilaquiles. My mother tried her best to pronounce the word, but it always came out as "Chili-Killies." After trying to cook it and several other dishes a few times, she gave up and stuck to the Italian dishes she had learned from her own father. My grandmother did not mind and was happy to let my mother cook from time to time, raving especially about her spaghetti and meatballs.

Water was - and continues to be - a problem for the residents of the Federal District. Mexico City was built on Lake Texcoco in 1519, and the constant draining of water from the lake and has not only caused the city to sink but also has not been enough for the millions of people who live in one of the largest cities in the world. Water was severely rationed, and people became expert at conserving it. Every morning after everyone had bathed, my grandmother cleaned her bathtub and filled it with water so she could use it for cooking, and washing hands and dishes, among other things. Every day, the city turned the water off in mid-afternoon and turned it back on the next morning. A couple of times a week, we also experienced power outages, and my grandmother would borrow her votive candles from her room to light the way for all of us.

I think the house was built of lathe and plaster, and like many houses down there, it became cold and humid in the winter. There was no central heating. Instead, my grandmother used a tall, portable black kerosene stove to keep warm. With so many people living there, my parents bought second stove. They were always very cautious around the stoves, mindful of the many fires there had been from people who had been more careless.

Not long after we arrived, I asked if I could claim the pantry, which had been converted into a broom closet and ironing room, as my bedroom. My grandmother let me put a cot there, but it stuck out into the hall. I tried it for much of the day, happy to have a place of my own to retreat to from our noisy family, but I think I gave it up before bedtime when I realized I didn't want to sleep there all alone. That was the end of "my" room.